


nothing follows

by isoldewas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, ignore the new movies, that movie was a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoldewas/pseuds/isoldewas
Summary: it's funny, it's wake up in the middle of the night funny: he has the upper hand now.





	nothing follows

**Author's Note:**

> Jude law. OkAY???
> 
> the other one is obviously not that one, anyway-

he wouldn't wish him on his worst enemy even when he wishes for him, his own worst enemy, a thing he used to own, a thing he used to have. he wants and he wants and he wants and it's threatening to erase parts of him, ideas of his.

it's funny, it's wake up in the middle of the night funny: he has the upper hand now. his own hands on his body feel foreign, snakes, bland, blank, blind. searching.

he doesn’t, he didn’t expect to be winning. didn’t expect winning to hurt all over; didn’t expect hurt to last for this long a while. didn’t expect him in the first place, in the last place, in any of shapes and forms he’d been over the years, over the summer. he wants out and in and everything in between and his hands feel cold and colder and not enough when he tries to remember how his hands used to feel: hot and sharp like harsh words, like his unfeeling eyes.

nothing follows, nothing, nothing until there they are again and there is no time to choose, Albus acts fast and Gellert thinks not. he could tell a story behind each and every spell, draw up a graph on how personal he was being, on how much he was hiding, but he doesn’t, doesn’t have the time because Albus tilts his head and that’s defeat in its earnest, appreciating the line of his jaw while being arrested.

he loses and he dies, fifty three years from now, alone and glad and smiling, eyes sharp and very much alive. but he thinks he died a long time ago, when he lost hope, when hope had a name; he had died a thousand times over in between those breath of theirs: shared, uninterrupted, scorching his throat and his tongue and his soul. every little death leaving marks on his skin, bones; blood too.


End file.
